Remembering All the Steps
by dreamsofhim
Summary: Grissom wasn’t a dancer. He knew how, of course. He just had to take the time to remember all the steps. Christmas theme.


**Summary:** Grissom wasn't a dancer. He knew how, of course. He just had to take the time to remember all the steps.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Written for the Gibby's challenge at _YTDAW_. Prompt: Make Grissom Dance. Many thanks to **csishewolf** and **scifijoan** for their beta services. Special thanks to **brandie** for her support and ideas.

* * *

**Christmas 1963**

He didn't believe in Santa Claus anymore, which made Christmas only slightly less magic. Mama and Daddy pretended...they didn't know he knew. Thank God they'd given up on taking him to visit that fake Santa at the department store. Some things about Christmas were great, though. The _Sears Wishbook_ for one. So was the _Edmund Scientific Catalog_. Daddy sort of hinted 'Santa' might bring a microscope this year. He could hardly wait.

They'd just come home from midnight Mass. This was the first year he'd been allowed to go. The incense made him wrinkle his nose, but he'd felt so grown up and everything was so pretty. Afterward, he'd gotten to open one present – socks, unfortunately – but there was lots more stuff under the tree. Reluctantly he'd gone up to bed only to be lured back to the top of the stairs by _The Christmas Waltz._

Daddy loved music so at first he thought maybe he'd just put on some records. But when he peeped through the banister what he saw made him creep down a few steps to get a better look.

_It's that time of year  
__When the world falls in love  
__Every song you hear  
__Seems to say...  
__Merry Christmas_

Mama and Daddy were dancing. He'd never seen that before. And it wasn't that he hadn't seen dancing before. He'd watched Lawrence Welk on TV, after all. No, it was the looks on their faces...the way they looked at each other and smiled...like they had a secret.

Much later, Jack and Anna Grissom found their boy asleep on the second step at the top of the stairs. They thought he'd been waiting for Santa.

xxx

**Easter 1968**

"I don't want to go to that dance, Mom," he signed and sighed.

"There is more to life than bugs and baseball, Gil," she signed, smiling. "A gentleman needs to know certain things. We've talked about manners. Learning to dance is another one of those things."

He rolled his eyes and looked away. It was a risk...Mom would be mad because it was rude. Sure enough, he felt her fingers on his chin, turning his head to face her.

"Gil, you can't just do what you're good at."

"But, Mom..."

Pulling him to a standing position, she dropped his hands and started clapping in 3/4 time. "This is the beat. Now, you know where your hands go...like I showed you. It's important to watch me. A good dancer pays close attention to his partner."

It was almost impossible to watch her face when he had an overpowering urge to look at his feet. After a few missteps, though, he got the hang of it and they waltzed around the living room in silence.

His mother made him go to the Spring Fling. Tongue tied and shy, he hadn't asked anyone to dance, but Susan Sawyer asked him. It had been awkward at first, but he hadn't stepped on her feet and he'd remembered to pay attention to her like Mom said. Seeing a girl smile with her eyes for the first time made baseball and bugs a little less interesting for a few hours.

xxx

**May 1982**

He was missing California. Spring in Minnesota was hit or miss: cold one minute, warm the next…well, not _really_ warm. This temporary assignment had taught him a lot about cold climate forensics and that he could not _wait_ to get back home.

He would miss the people, though – the folks at Minneapolis PD were open and friendly. Manny Slaughter, head of the Lab and a man of good humor (he had to be in his profession with a name like Slaughter), had invited him for dinner a number of times. Minnesota native, Owen Gibbs, CSI III, had taken him to every bar and road house in the area, trying valiantly to hook him up for the duration. Katie Murphy, fingerprint specialist, watched Gibbs's efforts with amusement and secretly shared Grissom's bed.

It would be hardest to leave Constance Porter and her children, Ben Junior, 9, and Claire, 15. Ben Senior had sponsored his continuing education project in Minnesota. They'd met at a forensics seminar some years previous and hit it off. When they discovered Porter had known Jack Grissom in their college days, they'd become friends. Two weeks into the visit, Ben had had a stroke and died. In many ways, losing his friend had been like losing his father all over again.

He'd spent a lot of time with Constance and the kids helping out where he could, but mostly trying to say goodbye to Ben. The kids gravitated to him as if they knew they were all part of the same sad club. He thought he'd identify more closely with Benny since he'd been nine when his own dad died, but it was Claire who sought him out repeatedly, wondering how life could go on without her dad. He'd tried to assure her that it would.

One day in particular stood out in his memory.

"Where is she, Connie?" he asked.

"Up there," said Constance, gesturing toward the staircase.

He called up the stairwell, "Hey, kid."

"Oh, hi, Uncle Gil." She wasn't crying but her eyes were red. "Did Mom call you?"

"Would it bother you if she did?" he asked.

"I guess not."

"She thought you might want to talk…" he said helpfully.

"Well, I don't."

"Okay…" he said, climbing to the landing and sitting next to her.

It was ten minutes before Claire spoke again. "Saturday is my birthday," she said with a sigh.

"Your mom told me."

"You know, Daddy did the most amazing things on our birthdays...clowns...pony rides...one year he drove us all the way to Wisconsin Dells and last year, he took me flying," she said wistfully.

Grissom said, "Your dad was a great guy, Claire."

"I miss him."

"Me, too, honey...we all do."

"He was supposed to dance with me on my 16th birthday. It was our tradition...ever since I was a little girl and I had to stand on his shoes because I didn't know the steps... Every year after I blew out the candles on my cake, Daddy would put on a record and ask me to dance...you know...like a grown up. Then we'd dance around the living room – he'd tell me how proud he was of me...and about the day I was born..." she said, finally dissolving into tears again.

When Saturday rolled around, Claire made a wish on her birthday candles never expecting it to come true. He'd planned it carefully, talking at length with Constance to get the moment just right. When James Taylor's _Sweet Baby James_ started to play, he'd gotten up from the table, bowed to the birthday girl and said, "May I have this dance?"

He was rusty, but he remembered his lessons well...he looked into her eyes and told her the story of the day she was born and how proud Ben would be of her. The song lasted only a few minutes but he never forgot the gratitude and sorrow woven into that waltz. Dancing was not just for lovers.

xxx

**New Years Eve 1998**

"_I hate these things,"_ he thought to himself, _"especially when attendance is mandatory."_

He hadn't any plans to speak of, but dressing up in a monkey suit so the Sheriff could have a full court was definitely not on the list. Glancing at his watch, he figured he only had to stick another hour; then he could slip away and get back to the article he was writing for the _Journal of Forensic Sciences_.

Early on he'd parked himself at a table half hidden by a potted palm hoping he'd miss out on a situation that called for small talk. What an odd phrase: 'small talk.' It shouldn't be, but it wasn't 'small' to him – he hated talking about nothing.

One by one he'd seen his colleagues whirl by, laughing, a little drunk, having a great time. Charlotte, the new fingerprint tech, danced by with a wink and a wave. That had been a mistake...he'd violated his own rule by dating someone from the Lab...and now he didn't know how to break it off without causing hard feelings. His mood darkened.

Staring at the bourbon in his glass, he swirled it idly. Another glance at his watch: 45 minutes to go.

"There you are, Gil. I've been looking for you!" Catherine said brightly as she sat down next to him.

He looked at her humorlessly. "You found me."

"Oh, come on, Gil. Cheer up. It's almost midnight."

His only response was a grunt. Catherine broke into gales of laughter. "You're the only man I know who'd rather recover a decomp than spend a few hours at a party."

"You know I don't do parties, Catherine...and I especially don't do parties I have to attend in order to keep my job," he said sourly.

She stood suddenly and grabbed his hand, "Dance with me? They're playing a waltz..."

"Catherine..." he pleaded.

Reaching for his other hand she pulled him to his feet, "Oh, Gil, be a sport..."

He rolled his eyes and let her pull him toward the dance floor. Catherine was a force of nature; he'd learned long ago to let her have her head in certain things. As they started to dance he realized the band was quite good. He also realized it had been years since he'd danced with anyone...he had to concentrate hard at first before his body took over.

Catherine smiled up at him, "See? This isn't so bad."

He couldn't repress his own smile, "You're right. It's not bad at all."

"I'll take that as a compliment," she chuckled.

"I'm sorry, Cath..."

"Don't be sorry, Gil. Enjoy!"

And he did. It was a rare thing...he never did this, nothing remotely like this...ever.

When the number was over he let go of Catherine reluctantly. "Thank you, Catherine. That was wonderful."

She stretched up to kiss his cheek, "What are friends for? Happy New Year."

xxx

**December 2006**

This would be their first Christmas together. He turned the words over and over in his mind. Four absolutely wonderful words.

Neither of them had celebrated the Holidays in years. Oh, they'd exchanged a few presents and wished people well, but decorations? No. Sara did put a wreath on her door every year, but he hadn't even done that much.

Once in awhile someone would sneak in his office with sparkly garland. One year he'd been forced to wear a Santa hat. Miss Piggy had been the focus of several decoration drive-bys, the most memorable being the year mistletoe was hung over her jar: he'd cleaned quite a few lip prints off the glass in January.

It was fitting that this year should be the first year they decided to actually celebrate Christmas; it had been a year of so many firsts. Their first date, their first kiss...the first time they made love. He smiled at the memory, for that had been the real beginning...the day they knew their paths were entwined for good.

And now it was Christmas. Part of him thought the urge to decorate the house was absurd. What was the point of putting up a tree for a couple of weeks only to take it right down again? But they both seemed to want it so they didn't waste much time analyzing; they just did it.

His contribution had been finding the tree. _"You can buy anything online,"_ he thought as he typed in his credit card information at FreshChristmasTree dot com. They'd decided to go small this year…he'd bought a three foot Frasier fir they were going to put on a table in the living room. That made him smile – 'small this year' carried with it the belief that they'd make a decision like this every year for years to come.

Sara had put herself in charge of ornaments, buying a selection on eBay. She'd been so excited the day they arrived, spreading them out of the dining room table like some glittering treasure trove. He noticed she'd chosen vintage ones…trying, he thought, to give their tree a feeling of history where none actually existed. _"Never mind,"_ he'd thought, _"the history will come. We're making it every day."_

He hadn't been able to resist that call himself: he'd bought a vintage dime store Nativity set reminiscent of the one he remembered from childhood. When it was delivered in a somewhat rumpled box, he'd been relieved to find the figures unbroken. As he'd lifted out the wise men and sheep, shepherds and all the rest, he recalled how his mother had allowed him to unwrap and set up their manger scene so long ago, and of that Christmas he'd caught his parents dancing around the living room.

Sara was in the kitchen making spiced cider…it smelled delicious. He had some brandy that would give it some oomph, so he got the bottle out of the liquor cabinet pausing long enough to cue up a CD, and joined her next to the stove.

"That smells so good," he said, smiling and holding up the brandy. "I have something that'll make it even better."

She switched off the burner and turned to face him, catching him around the middle and pulling him into a hug.

Frank Sinatra's version of _The Christmas Waltz_ drifted through the kitchen. "Dance with me?" he whispered.

"I don't know how," she said, brow furrowing.

"No problem. I'll teach you," he said with such confidence that she relented and let him go.

"Okay. Right hand here…in mine. Left hand on my shoulder. Ready? Look at me. It's very important to look into your partner's eyes when you dance…"

After a few missteps and a lot of laughing she caught on and relaxed in his arms, content to let him lead. They broke just long enough for him to cue the CD again.

_It's that time of year  
When the world falls in love  
Every song you hear  
Seems to say  
Merry Christmas  
May your New Year dreams come true  
And this song of mine  
In three quarter time  
Wishes you and yours  
The same thing too_

They looked at each other like they shared some delightful secret. Bugs (and baseball) and the cares of the Lab temporarily forgotten, they whirled around the living room. He thought back to Claire Porter and her sorrow and Catherine, who wanted nothing more than to share a happy moment with a friend. He even thought of Susan Sawyer, that first girl who smiled at him with her eyes.

They made a little history that night, a fresh overlay on the faded memory of Jack and Anna waltzing on Christmas Eve…and he was so glad he remembered all the steps.

FIN

_The Christmas Waltz – Words by Sammy Cahn, music by Jule Styne_


End file.
